Time After Time

Pain on a Plate

Mitch picked idly at his breakfast, his stomach craving the food that was in front of him despite how sick he felt. He was almost certain that if he ate the delicious pastry that Scott had bought for him, he would end up kneeling over the toilet bowl and he couldn't handle that. He was stressed out enough as it was. His face was tight and his eyes were painful from the tears he'd shed both the previous night and that morning and his thoughts were scattered and incoherent; a grey fog that flooded into masses of black and white. A voice from outside of the fog, outside of his mind, spoke kindly, quietly, a ray of color in the darkness, but Mitch could find no way to respond. How he could he? He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it. And he certainly didn't want to talk about it with Scott Hoying. Why didn't Scott understand? Why didn't he realise?

Mitch sluggishly reached for his coffee, the cup instantly warming his cold hands, which caused him to sigh in a mixture of pleasure and relief. He drank the hot beverage quickly, and then pulled a face at the food that he hadn't eaten. He shook his head, feeling too nauseous to consider trying to consume any more, and silently excused himself from the table. He headed back to his bedroom, petting Wyatt on the way. The Sphynx cat purred as Mitch's hand touched his head, and then meowed when the countertenor pulled his hand away and walked into his room.

Shutting the door to prevent the cat from entering, Mitch let out a large sigh, relieved to have made it through the awkward meal. Tears began to burn in his brown orbs again, so the brunette pressed his palms into his eyes in an attempt to halt the flow that was trying to begin. The dam burst and Mitch let out a loud sob, sinking to the floor, back pressed against the door. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them as his body trembled violently. He babbled incoherent words to himself as he cried, insulting himself over and over again. He hated himself for being such a pathetic, useless mess. It wasn't a surprise that everyone cheated on him, nor was it a surprise that everyone broke up with him. How could anyone love someone so small and fat and ugly? Why did Scott even continue to try to be friends with him? Scott was so talented but Mitch... Mitch felt that he had no talents. His body shook harder as the liquid streamed down his face. His body ached, his heart hurt. He just wanted it to stop. The grey fog turned black as Mitch's sobs grew louder. He just wanted it all to stop. A knock on his bedroom door ripped through the fog, startling the small man.

"Mitch, I know you don't want to talk, but I'm here if you need me, okay? I can hear you, and I'm worried," a voice - Scott's voice - said. Mitch felt like he'd been punched in the stomach by a fistful of guilt; he could hear that the blonde had been crying. Mitch hung his head down, feeling ashamed of being at fault for his best friend's tears. He wasn't worth crying over. The countertenor tried to force these sentences out, but he couldn't form the words. He managed to stammer out a few syllables before breaking down again, gasping for breath with wet pouring from his brown eyes. He wanted to talk to Scott. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He couldn't be near Scott, no matter how hard it was to stay away. He had to ignore him, no matter how much it hurt. The brunette could hear that the other man was still stood behind the door, and he involuntarily found himself visualising the older man's face, tearstained and pained. Mitch cried harder at this mental image. He didn't want to hurt Scott. Quivering, he pushed part of his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from making any noise and waited, silent tears pouring from his eyes, until Scott had walked away.

Mitch, unsure of whether he could stand, removed his hand from his mouth, the taste making him feel more ill, and took a deep breath. Still shaking, and with next to no composure, the countertenor forced himself to his feet and stumbled across his room to his bed. Setting himself down on it and crawling under the covers, Mitch curled up into fetal position. He felt protected by the warm blankets that were smothering his aching limbs and, although it could not change the aching in his heart, it made him feel a little more at ease. Mitch lay there for a while, crying silently as his shaking gradually subsided. After a couple of hours, sleep smothered him, taking him away from the grey clouds in his mind.